


Future Regrets

by lovesrogue36



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Future Fic, Gen Work, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, Varies by chapter - some pairing some gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:14:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2286306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/pseuds/lovesrogue36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of oneshots exploring possible futures for the Mathesons and Monroes, some happy, some very much not so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Queen of an Overgrown Castle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 54 Prompts in 54 Days event at nbc_revolution on LiveJournal.

When they placed the crown on her head, (pinched from the Smithsonian two weeks ago), Rachel almost laughed at the absurdity in front of sixteen North American representatives and her own council of advisers, made up of the five people she had left to call family: Miles, Charlie, Aaron, her father and even a reluctant Bass.  
  
Texas, California and the nano tore each other apart until all that was left was the mindless hoards of people with their humanity turned down to a simmer and fireflies buzzing around their heads. It was easy, then, for the old-fashioned Matheson-and-Monroe warfare to sweep up the mess.  
  
But nobody wants a Monroe on the throne, and everybody's too weary of the democracy charade to keep it up.  
  
So here they are, Rachel Matheson crowned, what? Queen of the Eastern Seaboard? Her lips twitch even now, hours later with her bare feet up on the window sill of the former Oval Office and a glass of Miles' best whiskey resting against her cheek. The ice cubes rattle quietly, almost obscuring the gentle footfalls behind her.  
  
Miles drops a kiss onto the top of her head, sinking into the chair beside her, the moonlight shining blue on the familiar lines in his face. "Nice crown," he murmurs, threading fine, gold hair through his fingers.  
  
Rachel chuckles, sipping at the whiskey. A little hysterical inside, perhaps. "Don't make me laugh."  
  
"Ooh careful there, Miles. Don't piss off her majesty."  
  
Bass has been leaning in the shadows the whole time, half-drunk and still a little ticked off that she's the one with the crown and he's the one with the tiny office and the pile of paperwork.  
  
She tips her head back against Miles’ shoulder, drawing her finger around the rim of her glass. “Kiss my fucking ring, Bass.”  
  
“Well look who’s power’s already gone to her head.” Bass wanders across the room to sink down at the window, grabbing her bare foot and digging his thumb into her arch.  
  
“Just for tonight. In the morning, I tackle world peace and all that.” Rachel swirls the whiskey in her glass, staring into it with more melancholy in her eyes than in her voice. “Besides, if I only have to be better than your record, I’m golden.”  
  
Miles and Bass exchange a glance over her head. The rest of the continent thinks it’s just a show, that she’s the pretty, too-smart-for-her-own-good face in front of the old generals of the Monroe Republic. These two know better.  
  
Rachel’s a hell of a lot stronger than they ever were. She’s smarter and at least as brutal. She might look a bit ridiculous right now, with a stolen ring of gold on her head and several glasses of whiskey and champagne in her, but North America has no idea what it’s in for.


	2. Roadside Crosses

People don't really get headstones anymore, with nice things carved into stone about them. They barely get funerals, just bare bones eulogies mumbled over a simple wooden cross and a mound of fresh dirt before mourners scurry on to the next pointless stop in an unending road trip, criss-crossing the countryside. In search of the one place where the memories of the days before the Blackout aren't so potent, where life can start new and untainted.  
  
 _It doesn’t exist._  
  
Scattered along the overgrown highways and deserted towns of North America, there are a half dozen or more such crosses belonging to one unfortunate family, battered by the elements and bent this way and that by years of neglect. There is nothing to note who the people rotting beneath those crosses were, what they did for the world, or to it.   
  
But on the long stretches of road that are now his home, the last surviving member of that family wonders what would have been carved into their graves, if it had been practical. If they had not been hastily erected by a dwindling family plagued by bad decisions and worse luck.  
  
Sebastian Monroe  
1981-2030  
Beloved Brother, Accidental King  
  
 _Miles tries not to think about this one too frequently. If he thought about the empty seat next to him on the bench, he’d crawl into a bottle and not come out this time._  
  
Rachel Matheson  
1983-2031  
She Ended the World A Lot  
  
 _Miles thinks this one would make her smile, beneath all the guilt. She always was a bit of a nerd._  
  
Charlie Matheson  
2007-2042  
We Lost Her Too Young  
  
 _Miles knows they lost her long before he had to bury her._  
  
When Miles’ turn came, there was no one left to know who he was, what he had done. His cross was nothing more than a courtesy from a traveling minister, a man with a kindness in his eyes that Miles hadn't seen since his sweet girl faded that day by the river, the bullet in her abdomen too much to recover from.   



	3. Grief Baying at Her Heels

She clings to her baby in the dark, hot tears on both their cheeks. The blood is warmer than her tears though, _drip drip drip_ off her fingertips. With Danny she was cold, she wept, she cut into him because she had to.  
  
With Charlie, she’s already lost her mind once (twice, does Philadelphia count?) and she doesn’t know how to do cold anymore.   
  
They have to tear her away from the body and Miles is cussing (apparently some of the blood is her own; she thought it was all Charlie’s, all her sweet, beautiful, brilliant girl’s.)   
  
_(Why didn’t she ever tell her that? That she was sweet and beautiful and brilliant and that she was proud of her? What kind of mother never tells her daughter she’s proud?)_  
  
The boys are just as distraught but she doesn’t notice for days, weeks, too absorbed in her own grief and self-loathing. Miles doesn’t let her out of his sight for more than a minute or two, practically following her to pee and bathe, but she doesn’t argue: he’s right, she’s thought about staying underwater until it all fades away or slicing open her veins with Bass’ buck knife.   
  
Wouldn’t that be ironic? Kill herself with Bass’ weapon. Even in her darkest nightmares, she likes the idea of bringing him down with her.   
  
But, no, killing herself would only be letting him win. Would be leaving Miles wide open and vulnerable to Bass’ particular brand of seduction: history and friendship and raw wounds. She has to stay standing between them, has to protect the world from the two of them together.   
  
That’s what she tells herself when she finally notices the bags under Miles’ eyes, the well-worn Wrigley Field postcard sticking out of his back pocket, and the way Bass stares at his hands every night by the fire, like he can still see the bloodstains there. Charlie’s left a hole in each of them. Some part of her is glad Ben and Danny and her dad didn’t have to bear the pain of losing their girl.   
  
_(A selfish part of her is just glad she doesn’t have to comfort any of them. She never was any good at easing other people’s pain.)_  
  
But Bass and Miles, their pain is familiar to her. And soon standing between them isn’t enough.   
  
Maybe it’s twisted that the death of her daughter drew her into _this_ with… with _them._ But it’s too good, the stretch of cocks inside her and the stroke of callouses on her bare skin, over her scarred stomach, her stretch marks, over the healed nicks and cuts of surgical instruments jammed under her fingernails, _(Bass kisses each one and Miles pretends not to see)_ ; these two men are the first intoxicants to do her any good since they were forced to leave Charlie’s body behind.  
  
 _(And she’s tried others. Tried joining Bass with several bottles of whiskey, tried cheap roadside opium before Miles took it away and destroyed it. As if he’s never found creative ways to shut out his guilt.)_  
  
It’s only this that shuts it all out: their touch and the feel of three bodies twisted in a single, too-small blanket by what Bass is convinced is the Arkansas River. He was drawing maps in the dirt when she climbed over him and demanded his tongue inside her. That he complies with such demands should be enough to challenge her sanity but she only grabs Miles’ hand and clings to them until she’s coming and shouting and forgetting for brief seconds.

It all floods back while they get undressed and crawl under the blanket. All her guilt and grief and hatred: _the Blackout, the Tower, the bombs, walking away from her babies and failing to take revenge._  
  
They’ll just have to make her come a dozen times tonight; maybe that’ll be enough to keep it all at bay while she sleeps. She’ll return the favor tomorrow.


	4. Ice Shards

Snow flurries blow in with two bundled figures, the wind howling for brief seconds before the door slams shut again. The stairs creak under their feet and Miles leans against the cell bars in bored anticipation. It’s been ages since they saw anyone other than their guard, twice a day for meals and a few gulps of water. Bass flings a pencil silently at the wall, his makeshift dart sticking precariously in the dense soil that makes up three of their walls. 

The last person he expects it to be is Rachel, hands folded neatly in front of her and snowflakes clinging to her hair. He’s wondered for weeks where she was, if she was safe, but here she stands looking as fresh and diabolical as ever. There’s a guard behind her with a pistol at his waist, a little too calm, like he knows none of them is in a position to try anything. 

_“Rach.”_ The fragment of her name sticks in his throat. “You okay?”

“Fine. Connor can't afford to hurt me.” She sounds dry, unfeeling. Bass always asks how he fell in love with such a frigid bitch. He’s never dignified it with a response ‘cause it doesn’t matter. He _does_ love her. And Bass. Loves them both.

He must look baffled as his thoughts spin off track because she elaborates: “I’m his new mother-in-law.”

Miles blanches, horror settling into the spaces between muscle and bone, where flesh rasps over skeleton. Finally, something shocking enough to rouse even Bass. 

There’s a flurry of fists and _fucks_ ; she just waits for them to breathe again. 

“Tell me she was willing. No son of mine…” Bass sounds genuinely grieved, his breath a puff of mist in the freezing air.

She falters in her cold composure, hands fisting at her sides. “I’m not sure. If she were me… I’d say it’s a good political move. Get close to him, under his skin. But Charlie’s a fighter, not a politician. So I don’t know.”

“Why did he let you down here?” Miles doesn’t dare reach for her hand with the guard right there but traces the fine blue veins on her skin with his eyes instead. 

“President Bennett wanted me to inform you that Jasper, Indiana has suffered from its second massive fire in four years.”

They both straighten, psychological rods jammed into their spines. Miles is quiet, intimidating, (General Matheson), when he speaks again and he could swear the guard flinches. “Excuse me?”

“It started in the courthouse at two a.m., night before last. Burned… burned the entire town to the ground. No survivors.”

“And what level of incompetence does my son’s government possess to let that happen?” Bass demands, slamming his fist against the bars. As if any of them believes it was incompetence.

“That’s the official story. Real story is only 34 perished in the fire. The rest were shot on sight, just for being from your hometown.” Miles knows she’s thinking of all the children in that town, all the innocent mothers and babies and grandparents, but she doesn’t crack.

Connor’s good at spin: he’ll make it sound tragic, his hometown destroyed. General Monroe is imprisoned in the basement with his _brotherloverfriend_ and the biggest monster in town is a scared little boy who lost his mommy.

Rachel wavers, reaching out to slide her hand into his. Her skin is soft, unblemished by the sun, and rather like ice. He isn’t even shocked when Bass covers her small fingers with his own. Her lips are blue and they all three huddle together for a moment, bars between them.

The snow is blinding outside the door as she leaves and then they’re plunged into dark again.


	5. Geosmin and Palmitic Acid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A happy chapter! I'm not even kidding. The title refers to some of the chemical compounds that make it smell like rain. Yes, I had to google that.

Rachel kneels in the garden, a small hoe in one hand and dirt streaked across her cheek from pushing flyaway hair out of her face. She smiles to herself at the sound of hooves in the distance, horses thundering towards home like they _know_ they’re almost there, like they’re just as eager as their riders.

She uproots another yellowed tomato plant and tosses it on the compost pile; the soil’s still slightly damp from that rainstorm two days ago and she really has to get the winter vegetables planted before September passes her by. Rachel shades her eyes, the thunder clouds rolling in overhead casting her in grey, afternoon shadows but the horizon all lit up in the distance, wide rays of sunshine falling on two far-off dots, manes blowing in the breeze.

They’ve been gone almost a month, making nice with the locals and establishing that Jackson is _their_ town now and Generals Matheson and Monroe are retired, but not dead; they’re living in a farmhouse with a vegetable garden but, in Miles’ words, _they’re still not to be fucked with_.

But now they’re home, or almost, they’re so close she can hear the jangle of swords and tack, and none of that matters. Sure, she’s going to quiz them relentlessly later and they’ll begrudgingly hand over whatever information she wants. But first.

She squints up at Miles with a grin she can’t possibly contain as he skids to a stop at the edge of the garden and loops the reins around a fencepost. He crosses the yard in three long strides, mouth twisted in determination, and drags her to her feet, big expansive hands on her jaw and lips on hers. It’s deep and searching and his tongue’s in her mouth, that old familiar whiskey-bite. God, she’s missed him. (Missed them, but she'd never admit it. Living in a house without Bass always feels a little hollow, after Philly, but that's just the deepest, darkest part of her soul talking.)

The hoe tumbles out of her hand, lands point down in the dirt, and they stumble backwards until a raised bed cuts her off at the knees. Miles only presses his mouth to the slope of her throat as they fall; she rips off her gloves and drives her fingers into his glossy, tempting hair with a moan.

It’s not that they don’t notice the second horse plod to a stop beside them, just that they aren’t going to spring apart for Bass’ sake, of all people. He leans forward on his saddle horn, his horse stamping impatiently under him. “If it feels good, do it in the dirt, huh?”

Rachel waves a dismissive hand at him, her jeans already unbuttoned and Miles’ scabbard hitting the ground. She’s pretty sure Bass rolls his eyes at them and rides on to the barn, but she’s not exactly invested in his whereabouts right now. Not with her clothes yanked aside and Miles pushing inside her, dirt on her face and leaves in her hair.

It’s gloriously undignified, the clouds above them epic and dominating while they grind and thrust in the dirt like insignificant ants. It’s gloriously undignified and gloriously liberating. He’s still buried inside her when it starts to rain again, but Miles doesn’t stop thrusting until they’re both drenched, the garden bed under them just starting to become mud, and he’s wrested the last hoarse cries from both their throats.

When he finally lifts his head and meets her eyes through the drizzle, laughter springs from both of them, uncontrollable; she abandons her jeans, flings her arms around his neck and lets him haul them both up onto the porch.

Bass leans against the front door with two towels and an unfazed expression. He’s the most debauched of the three of them, certainly, and fucking outside in the rain, reveling in being _alive_ and _together_ , Bass is the last person who’s ever going to judge them for that.

“Hi,” Rachel murmurs, letting him wrap the towel around her shoulders as Miles takes the other for himself. “Welcome home.”

“What, Miles gets banged in the garden and I just get ‘welcome home’?” They’re never going to be able to relax with each other, not really, but they’ve mastered domestic rivalry.

Rachel smirks as he crowds her back against the porch railing, thumbs hooked in her panties. “Were you expecting something more?”

This is how it is: Miles is physical, Bass verbal, but they all satisfy each other in their own way. She rests her head back against the wood post as he seals his lips over hers, slow and certain. Miles rubs a towel over his damp hair, eying them, but he slides in behind Bass when she blindly reaches out a hand for him, lips and stubble scraping over the other man’s neck.

The air smells like geosmin and palmitic acid and the gutter’s leaking again, rainwater dripping down her back; Bass has his hand between her thighs and he’s groaning something incoherent, thanks to Miles’ teeth on his earlobe.

Rachel tips her chin up to the grey skies and thanks fate for these small measures of peace.


End file.
